“I think the public has a right to know if there’s a psycho in their midst,” he was saying.
“And that’s what you said on TV.” My irritation flared hotter. “That there’s a psycho in our midst.”
“I don’t remember my exact words. The real reason I stopped by is I’m wondering when I’m going to get a copy of the autopsy report.”
“Still pending.”
“I need it as soon as I can get it.” He looked me in the eye. “The Commonwealth’s Attorney wants to know what’s going on.”
I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. He would not be talking to a C.A. unless there was a suspect.
“What are you saying?” I asked.
“I’m looking hard at Keith Pleasants.”
I was incredulous.
“There are a lot of circumstantial things,” he went on, “not the least of which is how he just so happened to be the one operating the Cat when the torso was found. You know, he usually doesn’t operate earth-moving equipment, and then just happens to be in the driver’s seat at that exact moment?”
“I should think that makes him more a victim than a suspect. If he’s the killer,” I continued, “one might expect that he wouldn’t have wanted to be within a hundred miles of the landfill when the body was found.”
“Psychopaths like to be right there,” he said as if he knew. “They fantasize about what it would be like to be there when the victim is discovered. They get off on it, like that ambulance driver who murdered women, then dumped them in the area he covered. When it was time to go on duty, he’d call 911 so he was the one who ended up responding.”
In addition to his degree in psychology, he no doubt had attended a lecture on profiling, too. He knew it all.
“Keith lives with his mother, who I think he really resents,” he went on, smoothing his tie. “She had him late in life, is in her sixties. He takes care of her.”
“Then his mother is still alive and accounted for,” I said.
“Right. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t take out his aggressions on some other poor old woman. Plus—and you won’t believe this—in high school, he worked at the meat counter of a grocery store. He was a butcher’s assistant.”
I did not tell him that I did not think a meat saw had been used in this case, but let him talk.
“He’s never been very social, which again fits the profile.” He continued spinning his fantastic web. “And it’s rumored among the other guys who work at the landfill that he’s homosexual.”
“Based on what?”
“On the fact he doesn’t date women or even seem interested in them when the other guys make remarks, jokes. You know how it is with a bunch of rough guys.”
“Describe the house he lives in.” I thought of the photographs sent to me through e-mail.
“Two-story frame, three bedrooms, kitchen, living room. Middle class on its way to being poor. Like maybe in an earlier day when his old man was around, they had it pretty nice.”
“What happened to the father?”
“Ran off before Keith was born.”
“Brothers, sisters?” I asked.
“Grown, have been for a long time. I guess he was a surprise. I suspect Mr. Pleasants isn’t the father, explaining why he was already gone before Keith was even around.”
“And what is this suspicion based on?” I asked with an edge.
“My gut.”
“I see.”
“Where they live is remote, about ten miles from the landfill, in farmland,” he said. “Got a pretty good-size yard, a garage that’s detached from the house.” He crossed his legs, pausing, as if what he had to add next was important. “There are a lot of tools, and a big workbench. Keith says he’s a handyman and uses the garage when things need fixing around the house. I did see a hacksaw hanging up on a pegboard, and a machete he says he uses for cutting back kudzu and weeds.”
Slipping out of his jacket, he carefully draped it over his lap as he continued the tour of Keith Pleasants’ life.
“You certainly had access to a lot of places without a warrant,” I cut him off.
“He was cooperative,” he replied, nonplussed. “Let’s talk about what’s in this guy’s head.” He tapped his own. “First, he’s smart, real smart, books, magazines, newspapers all over the place. Get this. He’s been videotaping news accounts of this case, clipping articles.”
“Probably most of the people working at the landfill are,” I reminded him.
But Ring was not interested in one word I said.
“He reads all kinds of crime stuff. Thrillers. Silence of the Lambs, Red Dragon. Tom Clancy, Ann Rule . . .”
I interrupted again because I could not listen to him a moment longer. “You’ve just described a typical American reading list. I can’t tell you how to conduct your investigation, but let me try to persuade you to follow the evidence . . .”
“I am,” he interrupted right back. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“That’s exactly what you’re not doing. You don’t even know what the evidence is. You haven’t received a single report from my office or the labs. You haven’t received a profile from the FBI. Have you even talked to Marino or Grigg?”
“We keep missing each other.” He got up and put his jacket back on. “I need those reports.” It sounded like an order. “The C.A. will be calling you. By the way, how’s Lucy?”
I did not want him to even know my niece’s name, and it was evident by the surprised, angry look in my eyes.
“I wasn’t aware the two of you were acquainted,” I coolly replied.
“I sat in on one of her classes, I don’t know, a couple months back. She was talking about CAIN.”
I grabbed a stack of death certificates from the in-basket, and began initialing them.
“Afterwards she took us over to HRT for a robotics demo,” he said from the doorway. “She seeing anyone?”
I had nothing to say.
“I mean, I know she lives with another agent. A woman. But they’re just roommates, right?”
His meaning was plain, and I froze, looking up as he walked off, whistling. Furious, I collected an armload of paperwork and was getting up from my desk when Rose walked in.
“He can park his shoes under my bed anytime he wants,” she said in Ring’s wake.
“Please!” I couldn’t stand it. “I thought you were an intelligent woman, Rose.”
“I think you need some hot tea,” she said.
“Maybe so.” I sighed.
“But we have another matter first,” she said in her businesslike way. “Do you know someone named Keith Pleasants?”
“What about him?” For an instant, my mind locked.
“He’s in the lobby,” she said. “Very upset, refuses to leave until he sees you. I started to call security, but thought I should check . . .” The look on my face stopped her cold.
“Oh my God,” I exclaimed in dismay. “Did he and Ring see each other?”
“I have no idea,” she said, and now she was very perplexed. “Is something wrong?”
“Everything.” I sighed, dropping the paperwork back on my desk.
“Then you do or don’t want me to call security?”
“Don’t.” I walked briskly past her.
My heels were sharp and directed as I followed the hallway to the front, and around a corner into a lobby that had never been homey no matter how hard I had tried. No amount of tasteful furniture or prints on walls could disguise the terrible truths that brought people to these doors. Like Keith Pleasants, they sat woodenly on a blue upholstered couch that was supposed to be unprovocative and soothing. In shock, they stared at nothing or wept.
I pushed open the door as he sprung to his feet, eyes bloodshot. I could not quite tell if he were in a rage or a panic as he almost lunged at me. For an instant, I thought he was going to grab me or start swinging. But he awkwardly dropped his hands by his sides and glared at me, his face darkening as his outrage boiled
over.
“You got no right to be saying things like that about me!” he exclaimed with clenched fists. “You don’t know me! Don’t know anything about me!”
“Easy, Keith,” I said, calmly, but with authority.
Motioning for him to sit back down, I pulled up a chair so I could face him. He was breathing hard, trembling, eyes wounded and filled with furious tears.
“You met me one time.” He shot a finger at me. “One lousy time and then say things.” His voice was quavering. “I’m about to lose my job.” He covered his mouth with a fist, averting his eyes as he fought for control.
“In the first place,” I said, “I have not said a word about you. Not to anyone.”
He glanced at me.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” My eyes were steady on him, and I spoke with quiet confidence that made him waver. “I wish you’d explain it to me.”
He was studying me with uncertainty, lies he had been led to believe about me wavering in his eyes.
“You didn’t talk to Investigator Ring about me?” he said.
I checked my fury. “No.”
“He came to my house this morning while my mama was still in bed.” His voice shook. “Started interrogating me like I was a murderer or something. Said you had findings pointing right to me, so I better confess.”
“Findings? What findings?” I said as my disgust grew.
“Fibers that according to you looked like they came from what I had on the day we met. You said my size fit what you think the size is of the person who cut up that body. He said you could tell by the pressure applied with the saw that whoever did it was about my strength. He said you were demanding all kinds of things from me so you could do all these tests. DNA. That you thought I was weird when I drove you up to the site . . .”
I interrupted him. “My God, Keith. I have never heard so much bullshit in my life. If I said even one of those things, I would be fired for incompetence.”
“That’s the other thing,” Pleasants jumped in again, fire in his eyes. “He’s been talking with everyone I work with! They’re all wondering if I’m some kind of axe murderer. I can tell by the way they look at me.”
He dissolved in tears as doors opened and several state troopers walked in. They paid us no mind as they were buzzed inside, on their way down to the morgue, where Fielding was working on a pedestrian death. Pleasants was too upset for me to discuss this with him any further, and I was so incensed with Ring that I did not know what else to say.
“Do you have a lawyer?” I asked him.
He shook his head.
“I think you’d better get one.”
“I don’t know any.”
“I can give you some names,” I said as Wingo opened the door and was startled by the sight of Pleasants crying on the couch.
“Uh, Dr. Scarpetta?” Wingo said. “Dr. Fielding wants to know if he can go ahead and receipt the personal effects to the funeral home.”
I stepped closer to Wingo, because I did not want Pleasants further upset by the business of this place.
“The troopers are on their way down,” I said in a low voice. “If they don’t want the personal effects, then yes. Receipt them to the funeral home.”
He was staring hard at Pleasants, as if he knew him from somewhere.
“Listen,” I said to Wingo. “Get him the names and numbers of Jameson and Higgins.”
They were two very fine lawyers in town whom I considered friends.
“Then please see Mr. Pleasants out.”
Wingo was still staring, as if transfixed by him.
“Wingo?” I gave him a questioning look, because he did not seem to have heard me.
“Yes, ma’am.” He glanced at me.
I went past him, heading downstairs. I needed to talk to Wesley, but maybe I should get hold of Marino first. As I rode the elevator down, I debated if I should call the C.A. in Sussex and warn her about Ring. At the same time all of this was going through my mind, I felt dreadfully sorry for Pleasants. I was scared for him. As farfetched as it might seem, I knew he could end up charged with murder.
In the morgue, Fielding and the troopers were looking at the pedestrian on table one, and there wasn’t the usual banter because the victim was the nine-year-old daughter of a city councilman. She had been walking to the bus stop early this morning when someone had swerved off the road at a high rate of speed. Based on the absence of skid marks, the driver had hit the girl from the rear and not even slowed.
“How are we doing?” I asked when I got to them.
“We got us a real tough one here,” said one of the troopers, his expression grave.
“The father’s going ape shit,” Fielding told me as he went over the clothed body with a lens, collecting trace evidence.
“Any paint?” I asked, for a chip of it could identify the make and model of the car.
“Not so far.” My deputy chief was in a foul mood. He hated working on children.
I scanned torn, bloody jeans and a partial grille mark imprinted in fabric at the level of the buttocks. The front bumper had struck the back of the knees, and the head had hit the windshield. She had been wearing a small red knapsack. The bagged lunch, and books, papers and pens that had been taken out of it pricked my heart. I felt heavy inside.
“The grille mark seems pretty high,” I remarked.
“That’s what I’m thinking, too,” another trooper spoke. “Like you associate with pickup trucks and recreational vehicles. About the time it happened, a black Jeep Cherokee was observed in the area traveling at a high rate of speed.”
“Her father’s been calling every half hour.” Fielding glanced up at me. “Thinks this was more than an accident.”
“Implying what, exactly?” I asked.
“That it’s political.” He resumed work, collecting fibers and bits of debris. “A homicide.”
“Lord, let’s hope not,” I said, walking away. “What it is now is bad enough.”
On a steel counter in a remote corner of the morgue was a portable electric heater where we defleshed and degreased bones. The process was decidedly unpleasant, requiring the boiling of body parts in a ten-percent solution of bleach. The big, rattling steel pot, the smell, were dreadful, and I usually restricted this activity to nights and weekends when we were unlikely to have visitors.
Yesterday, I had left the bone ends from the torso to boil overnight. They had not required much time, and I turned off the heater. Pouring steaming, stinking water into a sink, I waited until the bones were cool enough to pick up. They were clean and white, about two inches long, cuts and saw marks clearly visible. As I examined each segment carefully, a sense of scary disbelief swept over me. I could not tell which saw marks had been made by the killer and which had been made by me.
“Jack,” I called out to Fielding. “Could you come over here for a minute?”
He stopped what he was doing and walked to my corner of the room.
“What’s up?” he asked.
I handed him one of the bones. “Can you tell which end was cut with the Stryker saw?”
He turned it over and over, looking back and forth, at one end and then the other, frowning. “Did you mark it?”
“For right and left I did,” I said. “Beyond that, no. I should have. But usually it’s so obvious which end is which, it’s not necessary.”
“I’m no expert, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say all these cuts were made with the same saw.” He handed the bone back to me and I began sealing it in an evidence bag. “You got to take them to Canter anyway, right?”
“He’s not going to be happy with me,” I said.
Six
My house was built of stone on the edge of Windsor Farms, an old Richmond neighborhood with English street names, and stately Georgian and Tudor homes that some would call mansions. Lights were on in windows I passed, and beyond glass I could see fine furniture and chandeliers, and people moving or watching TV. No one seemed to cl
ose their curtains in this city, except me. Leaves had begun to fall. It was cool and overcast, and when I pulled into my driveway, smoke was drifting from the chimney, my niece’s ancient green Suburban parked in front.
“Lucy?” I called out as I shut the door and turned off the alarm.
“I’m in here,” she replied from the end of the house where she always stayed.
As I headed for my office to deposit my briefcase and the pile I had brought home to work on tonight, she emerged from her bedroom, pulling a bright orange UVA sweatshirt over her head.
“Hi.” Smiling, she gave me a hug, and there was very little that was soft about her.
Holding her at arm’s length, I took a good look at her, just like I always did.
“Uh oh,” she playfully said. “Inspection time.” She held out her arms and turned around, as if about to be searched.
“Smarty,” I said.
In truth, I would have preferred it had she weighed a little more, but she was keenly pretty and healthy, with auburn hair that was short but softly styled. After all this time, I still could not look at her without envisioning a precocious, obnoxious ten-year-old who had no one, really, but me.
“You pass,” I said.
“Sorry I’m so late.”
“Tell me again what it was you were doing?” I asked, for she had called earlier in the day to say she could not get here until dinner.
“An assistant attorney general decided to drop in with an entourage. As usual, they wanted HRT to put on a show.”
We headed to the kitchen.
“I trotted out Toto and Tin Man,” she added.
They were robots.
“Used fiber optics, virtual reality. The usual things, except it’s pretty cool. We parachuted them out of a Huey, and I maneuvered them to burn through a metal door with lasers.”
“No stunts with the helicopters, I hope,” I said.
“The guys did that. I did my shit from the ground.” She wasn’t happy about it.
The problem was, Lucy wanted to do stunts with helicopters. There were fifty agents on the HRT. She was the only woman and had a tendency to overreact when they wouldn’t let her do dangerous things that, in my opinion, she had no business doing anyway. Of course, I wasn’t the most objective judge.
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